


As It Was

by Taelr



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidents Happen, Canon Divergent, Eventual Porn, F/M, Idiots in Love, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Pining, Severus Snape Has a Heart, Strong Hermione defending the bullied is good stuff ok, Time Travel, Time Turner (Harry Potter), Young Severus Snape, Young everybody, definitely plot, except Dumbledore bc we all know he's ANCIENT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23181652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taelr/pseuds/Taelr
Summary: I'll think of something clever and captivating to put here later.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 14
Kudos: 69





	1. As It Was

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a long haul. We're talking marauder's era and then the subsequent events following Goblet of Fire until the bitter end. I've learned from my own mistakes in the past and will make absolutely zero promises about how often I'll update because life happens and I find that once I make promises like that I'm really, really bad at living up to them. The pressure gives me writer's block. So. I solemnly swear that I will never abandon this fic and will absolutely finish it, but I can't tell you now whether you'll get updates every other days or every other week. Trying to be somewhat canon compliant insofar as is possible, but there's only so much Marauders material out there and obviously we are going off the deep end with divergence in some aspects here. If you see any blatant mistakes or issues let me know but be aware that I will definitely be twisting some details to fit my own designs. Thanks for reading!

_There is a roadway, muddy and foxgloved_

_Never I'd had life enough_

_My heart is screaming out_

_And in a few days, I would be there, love_

_Whatever here that's left of me is yours just as it was._

_Just as it was, baby_

_Before the otherness came_

_And I knew its name_

_The drug, the dark, the light, the flame._

_...._

_Tell me if somehow, some of it remained_

_How long would you wait for me?_

_How long I've been away?_

_The shape that I'm in now, your shape in the doorway_

_Make your good love known to me_

_Just tell me about your day._

_Just as it was, baby_

_Before the otherness came_

_And I knew its name_

_The drug, the dark, the light, the shame._

_As It Was ~ Hozier (2019)_

The world pieced itself back together around her, slowly reforming. Familiar shapes and features materialized out of the blur, and the flashes of light and bursts of color ceased as the spinning came to a halt. These had been things happening around her, people moving past, torches lighting and extinguishing against the walls depending on the time of day, ghosts drifting or flying by, and more which she could not decipher or imagine, happenings which she had missed in the gap she’d jumped.

The hallway was empty around her, and for a moment she dared to humor the whisper of hope in her chest – was she back? Was this finally the proper year? She pressed her lips into a thin line and rushed to the closest painting on the wall. A small, sallow wizard wearing a great feathery thing for a hat and bright magenta robes peered at her suspiciously, likely having witnessed her sudden reappearance. “What year is it?” Hermione asked, fighting the urge to force the information out of the portrait more quickly when he stifled a yawn and glanced to his left, where a desk of paperwork lay untouched within his painting.

“Odd. Oh yes, very odd,” he muttered, straightening a stack of parchment.

“Please, sir.” The desperation in her voice shocked even Hermione, and it seemed to reach the indifferent, painted heart of the man in front of her, as well.

“The year is 1995, if you must know. It is Wednesday, the 3rd of May, and you, my dear, ought not be out this early.” He sniffed. “Since I suppose you’ll be demanding the time, as well, know that it is presently four o’clock. Wee hours of the day, mind you, _not_ nearing dinnertime.”

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. Dumbledore had found a way to put her right back where she had started, or nearly. It was slightly past five when she had originally entered this hallway in one year and left in another, which meant she was still an hour early. It meant there were now two of her in Hogwarts, and she must not be seen until at least five-thirty, at which point her second self would have left. _Left on the oddest adventure to have the strangest two years of her life. Years which were now close to meaningless in the present . . ._ She straightened suddenly. If her other self was to be coming along this very hallway in the next hour, it was best that she moved out of sight, and Gryffindor tower was hardly a safe bet as far as hiding places went, particularly from herself.

She fiddled with the ring on her right hand, still very unused to its weight and sensation upon her fourth finger. “Thank you, sir.” Suddenly there was only one place in the castle she wished to be, though a thousand questions danced in her mind. Would he remember? True to the portrait’s words, it was still early for anyone to be moving about the castle as far as the student body was concerned, but Hermione was privy to the information that some of the house prefects were scurrying around at these times. This was both comforting – an excuse for her own presence outside of her dormitory – and problematic – suppose one of them should see her?

She bid farewell to the wizard on the wall and turned to make her way hastily towards the office of a particular teacher. As she walked she considered the oddness of it; the Hermione Granger who was presently sleepless in her dorm, on the cusp of venturing out to wander Hogwarts, despised the man. Conversely, the Hermione Granger with the altered time turner resting on its chain against her chest and two stolen years of learning in her head felt quite the opposite.

She didn’t think to knock or hesitate outside of the classroom to which his office was connected, walking right in and scanning the empty room before making her way up the stairs to the office door. She set her hand on the knob and paused, swallowing the growing lump in her throat. Would he remember her? Had he forgiven her? What if he was angry? What if he didn’t know her? What if he didn’t care?

Steeling herself, she turned the knob and pushed the door open. As if he had sensed her – or someone, anyways – coming, he stood on the small second floor within the office, hands resting on the railing in front of him. He gazed coolly down at her, though knowing that face as she did now, she sensed a twinge of confusion in the crease that appeared in his forehead as he drew his brows together. Hermione released the door and clasped her hands in front of her, nervous fingers immediately finding the still-new ring and toying with it subconsciously as she stared up at him.

It was years since she had seen him like this. Her mind – instincts, even? – screamed for caution, dredging up the now deeply engrained understanding within her that the man before her was one to avoid when possible, to never cross, to always despise. But there was another feeling bursting in her chest, a softer but stronger one that called her to examine the familiarity in his features. Only seconds had passed.

“Miss Granger.” He sounded cold, annoyed. But there was something else in the deep breath he took after the words. He sounded disappointed, and . . . tired? “I–” He stopped, eyes riveted on her hands.

The disappointment at the way he addressed her rose in Hermione’s chest and expanded, clinging to the inside of her ribcage like some oozing, sticky black tar and suffocating the small flame of hope she’d been tenderly nurturing since her return to this time only minutes before. Again she was compelled to treat this version of the man before her with the deference and respect deserved from pupil to professor. But she bit her tongue before the word _Sir_ could escape her lips. “Severus,” she said quietly, instead. It was more a scared whisper than anything else, but it was a question in and of itself, the doorway to learning whether the severe man gazing down at her remembered anything at all.

There was a pause with silence so thick it felt like the air between them would ripple if Hermione dared to move. Her mind raced. For her, it had been minutes. Minutes since she’d last seen him, minutes since she’d apologized for having to leave without being able to tell him why, minutes since the ring she now found that she was still fondling absentmindedly had made its way onto her hand. But for him . . . Hermione didn’t have to count, because she had done the math before leaving. For him, it had been years. Of course, he’d surely seen her just the day before in class and the Great Hall . . . But it was different. She hadn’t _known_. She couldn’t comprehend how difficult the years could have been, or what her foray into a time she didn’t belong in may have done to the present. What had changed? About him? About Hogwarts? About everything?

Even from this distance, she could see the muscles in his jaw tighten. He blinked once, but it was not the calculated expression she had seen from him before. At least, _this_ him. Still, he didn’t speak. Fear gripped her. Had she broken time? Had the past she’d visited somehow been one of a different timeline? Did the man standing above her even possess the memories that for her had been moments she lived only hours before?

He tried to keep his face a calculated mask of indifference, but behind the black eyes his head was spinning. _It couldn’t be._ He studied her more closely, forcing his gaze away from her anxious hands and the item receiving all of their attention. He still remembered the day as if it had been burned into his mind, branded on his memories like some inescapable photograph that resurfaced at least daily behind his eyelids.

It took seconds to determine that her clothes were right. Blue jeans, that soft brown shirt that she loved so much, and the magical sweater she’d worn everywhere since she’d acquired it. Since _he_ had bought it for her. Even her shoes were right. And her hair . . .

He took a breath, one meant to be quiet and calming but one that was instead very unsteady and halting, much the way he felt inside. _So, today is the day._ Things bubbled up in his chest, feelings not his own. Or at least, they hadn’t been his own for nearly twenty years. And yet, the familiarity of them and ease which with he slipped back into them was dizzying. But Merlin, it had been _years._ She shifted where she stood and looked around the room. As soon as she did, the way the light played on her features changed and he saw the bags beneath her eyes and the redness there, and he understood; she had shed her tears only moments before. Tears he had himself wiped away and soaked into the shoulder of his own robes. Years ago.

It was too much.

“Hermione.”

He hadn’t spoken the name, her first name, in years. Only the evening before he had deducted points from Gryffindor as punishment for her snarky words, spoken out of line. But that her was not _this_ her. Not _his_ her. How many times had he studied her and wondered if she was ever going to come back to him? How many times had he watched her nearly die or arrived only after the little trio of trouble-making friends had faced terrible odds, and reprimanded them all, furious because he had nearly lost her? She didn’t know him, had grown to hate him, even, thanks to the wild imaginations of Potter and Weasley. But if she had died, if harm had come to her and stopped her from reaching the point, whatever day, whatever year it was that she had come from . . .

He knew she’d been in her fifth or sixth year, and tried to wait patiently for time to pass and the years to come. But she was insufferable, refusing to acknowledge his help for what it was, always suspecting an ulterior motive, always believing him to be against her best friend, always taking things he said the wrong way. He had become familiar with her during those two years in his youth, and had to mind himself when she did finally come to Hogwarts as a first year. He was inclined to tease her as he had before, when they were close, but this young and unknowing Hermione did not respond to his picking on her in the way that she would as an older witch. He felt equally concerned that someone would discover his odd fascination with his young student and eventually turned her sour response to him to his advantage, using it to distance them and foster a less than amiable relationship, terrified that someone would suspect him of terrible things, things which never crossed his mind.

He had studied her a great deal as she grew up, innocently desiring to know more about the young person she was, being that he already knew so much about the woman she would become. In the end he had kept her at arm’s length, attempting to protect and guide her while also maintaining his aloof, even severe nature around her. It was a complicated game and an exhausting one, particularly as the years passed and the young woman he was secretly so fond of grew closer and closer to being the one he’d known.

But, back to the present. He realized he’d been staring and found now that he had refocused on her that she was staring back, a delighted, goofy smile plastered across her face. She took a tentative step in his direction and stopped, still smiling. “You remember.”

Her words filled him with a warmth he couldn’t explain, hadn’t felt in over a decade. The ghost of a smile crept onto his own face, curling his lips. But it vanished a moment later as the self-consciousness arrived on his mind and spread like wildfire. Nearly twenty years . . . She was only just back. Minutes before, the witch grinning up at him had known a very different Severus Snape. He’d been so much younger, seventeen. Only in his thirties now, he still became aware of every line in his face, every millimeter his hair had receded, every new scar on his body since the last time she’d seen it. It must be a jolt for her to see him like this. It must be disconcerting and ugly. It must be horrible. Severus was in good shape, as his double life had demanded, but there was no hiding the fact that he had aged. He felt suddenly terribly unworthy.

She must have seen something in his face, because she took another halting step in his direction. “I’m sorry,” she said earnestly, and his heart sank. Surely she was seeing him as he was, and regretting her decision to reveal what she knew to him. But the ache dissipated as she continued, “Dumbledore forbade me from telling you the truth. I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m sorry I left. I–” She stopped suddenly, as if something terrible had occurred to her. “I’m . . . I understand if you didn’t . . . Didn’t wait for me.” Her voice grew quiet near the end, afraid.

Severus felt his face crumple into a frown. “ _Of_ _course_ I waited.” He regretted the severity of his tone as soon as he’d said the words.

But she didn’t seem taken aback in the slightest by the bite in his voice. Instead he saw new hope shining in her eyes. “I’m sorry, if it was terrible.”

“The waiting was not the worst.” That was a lie. Severus had faced murder and Voldemort himself and Dumbledore’s blind devotion to protecting the future no matter the cost, and none of it was as bad as the waiting. None of it.

Now she was guarded again. He sighed quietly to himself. He recalled a time when they had been like this, in the beginning. One step forward, two steps back. They’d broken through it, though, and . . . He opened his eyes and refocused on her. So she knew, at last. And she knew that he knew, too. Now what? He wanted to go to her, but years of refraining himself from showing the slightest bit of affection for her held him back. He glanced to his side, to the stairs that separated the two different levels they stood on.

“Do . . . You want me to go?”

His eyes snapped back to her face, darting down towards the ring on her hand. His voice, hardened by insecurity before, softened. “Please, don’t.”

Her smile had faltered earlier, but it beamed up at him again. She toyed with the ring on her hand for a moment longer and then drew her eyes away from him and to the stairs. Slowly, as if afraid that running to him or even walking too fast would shatter the world around them, she walked to them and took the first step. And then another, and then another. She gazed resolutely at the steps ahead and he watched her approach, fear tightening his chest and swelling in his throat.

Memories he had shut away from himself came bubbling back. Hands, clasping his so tight it hurt them both. Caramel eyes, defiantly staring right back at him despite his attempts to warn her away with his own glare. Her wand, something as familiar to him as the same sweater she wore now because it was as present in his memories as she was. Lips, brushing his ear as they whispered to him, pressed against his own, touched to his fingers one by one, murmuring against his shoulder, drawn along the skin of his cheek, his neck, his hip –

She stepped up onto the same floor, now level with him. He met her eyes and found them watching him with a playfulness and joy he hadn’t seen in Hermione Granger in a very, very long time. There was caution there, too, and he saw his own insecurities and fear of rejection mirrored in her caramel orbs. She had stopped, hesitating for a moment, but now she moved again, this time more swiftly, with a purpose. Fear overtook him. What did she have a mind to do when she reached him? And what if . . . Unthinking, He waved his wandless hand at the door below – it swung closed and the lock clicked. He searched her face, fearing this sudden action would cause her to stop, or at least give her pause. “Things . . . are not as they were,” he began to explain, fearful of driving her away.

“I know.” There was a resolute firmness in the words, but her expression was still soft.

She reached him. Severus stiffened. It had been over a decade since he had embraced the witch before him. There had been the rarest necessity to touch her in the past; usually in life or death situations such as the evening three members of that damnable foursome of friends from his own past had come together and one of them had been caught under the full moon. And then he had barely brushed her at all, far more intent on placing himself between her and a freshly transformed Rems Lupin. His familiarity with her touch was there in his mind, but no longer did muscle memory drive him to embrace her or even reach for her.

For Hermione, it had been mere minutes. Maybe an hour, no longer. The man standing in front of her was perhaps somewhat taller than the one she’d said goodbye to. But his hair was just as long, his eyes just as sharp, legs just as lanky, though now his form was more filled out and the width of his shoulders seemed to match the rest of him proportionately. She didn’t allow herself to think or dwell on it or hesitate, and walked right into him, tucking her hands under his cloak and around his middle and pressing herself into him with her cheek flattened against his chest. The heartbeat against her ear was quickened, but sounded blessedly familiar. He smelled the same, if not a tad more like potion ingredients than she remembered.

She bustled into him with such force that he took a step back to accept the impact and his arms came up to steady her automatically. A second or two after the initial collision and when she had quite comfortably folded herself into him, his hands left her shoulders and slowly, hesitantly encircled her and pulled her closer. She felt him trembling against her and dared to look up into his face, surprised by his wet eyes, threatening to spill over.

“It’s been . . . so long.” He dipped his head and murmured the words into her hair.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know.” There was bitterness in his words, forgiveness in his voice.

She tucked her face against him, away where he couldn’t see the tears springing to her own eyes. “You’re right. I – I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t be.” He withdrew and she sucked in her breath, but he only loosened his hold on her enough to peer down at her. Something in his expression quirked and she thought she saw the shadow of a smirk on his lips. “Unless, of course, you _planned_ to ruin me all along.”

“Ruin you.” She repeated the words, frowning and shaking her head emphatically. “Severus, I would never intentionally –”

“I know.” He stared down at her, and she felt a blush creeping into her cheeks when his gaze dipped down below her eyes, presumably towards her mouth and possibly the rest of her. He drew one hand away from her waist and slid it up her neck to gently cup her cheek. His skin felt the same now as it had hours before, though only the slightest bit more worn.

Hermione marveled at how familiar he was to her still. And how handsome. The young wizard she’d come to be so fond of was still very much there in the angles of his face. The only lines present were those at the corners of his mouth and his eyes. He’d aged, but those near twenty years looked damn good on him. She reached up with her right hand and curled her fingers around the hand with which he touched her face. He felt the scrape of the ring against the back of his fingers and drew in a sharp breath, gaze flitting towards it.

She lowered her eyes, guilty. “You gave it to me to remember you by, but for me it hasn’t even been hours. You were the one who needed something to remember _me_ by.”

He stroked her cheek with his thumb, eyes intensifying as they now scrutinized her face. Gently he removed his hand and tapped a finger to his temple. “I assure you, I’ve had plenty to keep me waiting.” Now he rested his hand against the side of her neck, thumb absently grazing her collarbone. There was so much familiarity in the action. She was heartened by how easily he seemed to slip back into touching her in spite of the years.

Slowly, seeing the unsure look in his eyes and understanding that too much too fast might cause him to shy away from her, she kept one arm around him and moved her touch to his cheek, but it lingered there for only a moment before curling slowly around the back of his neck. She had to tilt up onto her toes to reach him like this, and gently drew his face down closer to her own. The changes in his appearance and demeanor bothered her not at all. He was still Severus, _her_ Severus. She stopped suddenly, seeing something change in his eyes.

“I – I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be demanding. I know half a lifetime has passed for you since . . . I don’t know what you’ve done since then, who you are, who you’ve . . .” She trailed off, suddenly fearful of where this new line of thought was taking her. Her tone wasn’t accusatory in the slightest, her words serving more as a disclaimer and apology than anything else. She refused to rush him, if that’s what this was.

He rumbled a thoughtful, “Mm,” and studied her face, but didn’t draw back or pull away from her. His face loomed near hers, and he didn’t straighten or turn away. “No one,” he said at length, dark eyes boring into her with an intensity she had grown to read as more than what was on the surface.

This gave her pause. “. . . No one?”

He gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. “And,” he drawled, voice perhaps just the slightest more gravelly and deep than she recalled that of his younger self, “You’ve always been demanding.”

Hermione scoffed, leaning up onto her very tip-toes and straightening, automatically on the defense from his constant – though well-meaning – teasing. “I am not! I’ll have you know–”

Severus gave her no time to finish her argument and closed the space between them, pressing his lips into hers. There was an initial energy that dwindled into hesitancy an instant later, but the confidence returned when she looped her arms around his neck and responded enthusiastically. It was slow but passionate, tentative at first and then growing in intensity, lasting several long seconds before he gently extricated his mouth from hers, chuckling. “That was not a complaint,” he stated firmly.

Hermione’s cheeks burned. “Ah.” She mumbled it, having fallen prey to his baiting many times before. It was just like him to tease and pick on her – never with ill will – until he got some kind of reaction. Occasionally she gave it back, but the entire basis of their relationship was built on his gentle prodding and her good-natured acceptance, knowing that it was his way of showing that he cared. She slid her fingers into the hair at the back of his head and ran them along his scalp affectionately. At the familiar touch which he’d nearly forgotten about, a contented sigh escaped him and he folded forward to rest his head on her shoulder, his face in the crook of her neck.

They stood there like that for several seconds, with her one hand gently tracing the lines in his shoulder through his cloak and shirt, the other running itself through his hair. After some time he muttered, “You are . . . increasingly problematic,” into her neck, rattling her with the bass of his voice and causing a slight tremor to make its way down her spine.

“Oh?” she asked, smirking.

“Indeed. What am I going to do with you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve had minutes, maybe an hour or two to come up with something. You’ve had years, Severus.” The light teasing in her tone was evident, but he drew back and stood at his full height again, and she sorely missed having him so close.

His face was somber, expression suddenly very serious. His voice was almost hollow when he spoke. “I never knew exactly when – or if – you’d come back. Of course, I worked everything out immediately when your group of troublesome first years arrived. But I was afraid to hope . . .” he trailed off and stared at her again. “I couldn’t plan for what I would do if you _did_ ‘come back’ because I was too concerned you wouldn’t even do that.”

Hermione bit her lip and then released it immediately, seeing the look of distaste it stirred in Severus’ features. “I’m sorry.”

He smirked. “Should be.”

She snorted. “Well, I’m not a student anymore, not really. I mean, in this time I _am_ , but . . .”

“But the years spent with me in school mean you’ve technically aged beyond what this . . . era . . . credits you with.”

She hummed in agreement, tiring of the distance and stepping forward to press her cheek against his chest and loop her arms around him again. “Dumbledore knows. McGonagall would too.”

He stiffened against her.

“I mean about my age and me being here before. But . . . They knew about us too, Severus. Back then. Everyone did. We were joined at the hip.”

He growled into her ear. “This could potentially get very complicated.”

She laughed. “Already is. Technically I’m of age with the number of years I’ve lived. Not what my birth certificate says, but time travel does make those things a bit blurry.”

He chuckled in her ear, but the sound didn’t last. “And how, pray do tell, do you intend to explain all of this to one Mr. Potter and his closest compatriot?”

Hermione shrugged in his arms. “With the truth.”

He coughed and drew back to look her in the eye. “I don’t know if that’s–”

“It’s the most logical course of action,” she argued. Then added thoughtfully, “And it may paint you in a better light for them.” She frowned. “Depending on what’s changed, I mean.”

His brows drew together in that trademark frown. “Changed?” he repeated.

“Inevitably things change when you meddle with time. And . . . I meddled. For example, were you a death eater? Does Harry hate you? _Have_ things changed?”

He studied her face. “I suppose I wouldn’t know what’s changed or what it’s like to live in a timeline where I didn’t fall in love with a fellow student who left me suddenly and with no explanation after her last year of school and then reappeared as a much younger student later in my life.”

She pursed her lips and flicked her eyebrows in an expression of understanding. “That’s fair.” This was hardly the first mention of love passed between them, but her cheeks colored.

He snorted, but then deflated rather quickly. “How did you know about my . . . service . . . to the Dark Lord?”

“Harry,” she said instantly. “He saw one of Dumbledore’s memories in the pensieve in his office; when Karkaroff was summoned to trial and revealed the names of other servants of Voldemort. In the end it was the reveal of Barty Crouch Jr’s guilt, but your name was mentioned, among a few others. Harry said Dumbledore stood and spoke in your defense, claimed you were a double agent.” She paused, suddenly thoughtful. The man standing in front of her was so familiar, but she was under no delusion that he was the same young man she’d come to know so thoroughly. For that man, many years had passed and many things had happened. “Are you?”

“Am I what?” He almost snarled it, and she drew back from him, not at all a stranger to his temper but affected by the strength of it nonetheless.

“A double agent.” She stood straighter, out of his grasp now, though only a step away from him.

His shoulders sagged just a bit lower than normal. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.” He sighed. “Yes. Though Voldemort believes my allegiance has never wavered.”

Blunt as ever, she asked, “And? Has it?”

He stared at her, marveling at her stubborn ways. _Insufferable . . ._ “Never.” It was more a whisper than he’d intended, but he knew his eyes and expression conveyed more than just the word.

She shook her head. “But you did join him in the first place.” Her tone wasn’t biting, but the words stung him profoundly. “Why would you _do_ something like that, Severus?”

He took her hand, the one with his mother’s ring on it, and stared down at the stone in it as he spoke. “Why not? I felt I had never belonged anywhere else, with anyone else, and after–”

“What about me?” She was hurt. “I thought we _belonged_ just fine.”

He jerked his chin up to face her, still clinging to her hand. His trademark pause between words was very present as he spoke. “You. Left.”

She withdrew her hand and stepped away from him as if slapped. “I had no choice!”

He didn’t backpedal, but still sought for peace. Or so it seemed to Hermione. Sometimes it was bloody difficult to know what went on in that man’s head. “I know,” he said quietly, holding her eyes with his. “I understand that now. But back then, I did not. You can’t expect me to have known . . . “

She closed the space between them and took his hand in both of her own again, voice apologetic. “You’re right. I . . . I’m sorry.” She sighed. “This is . . . Not as easy as I’d imagined.”

He barked a soft laugh, but it was humorless. Then he smiled at her apologetically. “Were things between us ever that smooth?” The question was more a purr than the sharp gravel he’d spoken with earlier.

She brought his hand to her face and kissed his knuckles one at a time, then his palm. “Never.”

Their smirks mirrored each other and they stood like that, her with her lips against his palm and him gently brushing her cheek with his thumb.

“But were they worth it?” she asked after some time, lowering his hand but still holding it.

He didn’t break eye contact. “Always.”

She hummed and gave his hand a squeeze before letting it go. He seemed to feel an acute loss of the physical contact so she scooped it back up immediately, suddenly mindful that he had perhaps been craving her touch for nearly as long as she’d been alive. “I have to go to Dumbledore,” she confessed quietly. “He’ll need to reset the time turner. Maybe he’ll have some ideas as far as how to sort out this mess as far as school and age.” Her eyes lingered on him. “And . . . everything else. He knows exactly which day I left from. He sent me back to almost the exact time. He’ll be expecting me.”

Severus squeezed her fingers between his own, absently running a fingertip over the ring on her hand. “Going alone, or would you prefer company?”

She smiled at him and opened her mouth to speak, but just then the door rattled as someone knocked on it. She would very much like his company, though she knew that until this was all sorted, hand-holding between the two of them in any public fashion would be strictly unallowed. His face told her he knew more about the someone intruding on their moment than she. “Albus,” he muttered, and she caught more malice and distaste in the single word than she’d ever noted before.

Muffled from behind the door but clear enough to understand came the headmaster’s voice. “Severus, we’ve some things to discuss.”

Hermione watched the wizard beside her curiously, unsure herself just how to respond to this sudden change in the moment. It was as if they had summoned Dumbledore simply by speaking of him.

Severus gave her a lingering look and released her hand, but did not step away from her. They were no longer touching but their shoulders nearly brushed, they were standing so close. He drew out his wand and waved it at the door, which unbolted itself cleanly. He placed his wand back in his robes and straightened as the headmaster walked in, clearly taking the unlocking of the door for the invitation in that it was.

He gazed up at them immediately, obviously knowing better than to expect that Severus had unlocked the door by hand. His bright eyes crinkled but his expression betrayed no surprise as he took them in, standing side by side. “Ah, Miss Granger. Good to have you back. I _have_ been wondering for nearly twenty years now whether my adjustments to the time turner were successful.” He beamed up at them and Hermione was compelled to smile back, but a glance to her right showed a calculated, perhaps even spiteful expression directed the headmaster’s way.

Dumbledore seemed unfazed by this. “Shall we go to my office?”


	2. Would That I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the lovely people who reviewed, left kudos, and read chapter one! I appreciate you so much.

_True that I saw her hair like the branch of a tree_

_Willow dancing on air before covering me_

_Under cotton and calicoes_

_Over canopy dappled long ago_

_True that love in withdrawal was the weeping of me_

_That the sound of the saw must be known by the tree_

_Must be felt for to fight the cold_

_I fretted fire but that was long ago_

_. . ._

_With the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet_

_Like the ashes of ash I saw rise in the heat_

_Settle soft and as pure as snow_

_I fell in love with the fire long ago_

_With each love I cut loose I was never the same_

_Watching still living roots be consumed by the flame_

_I was fixed on your hand of gold_

_Laying waste to my loving long ago_

_Would That I ~ Hozier (2019)_

Hermione stood in her room in Gryffindor tower, staring out the window. The sun had not yet risen or even graced the horizon with the unsettling gray light which preceded it, but she knew only hours stood between her and the goings on of the day. She reflected on the years she and her friends had spent here at Hogwarts so far. While it wasn’t difficult to acknowledge that they’d been through some particularly complicated times, this year seemed the most pressing yet. And the most foreboding.

She couldn’t get it out of her head that Dumbledore and Fudge’s bizarre acceptance of Harry’s name being selected by the Goblet of Fire was beyond irresponsible and shocking – it was completely out of character. Of course she had no grounds for thinking she knew anything about the Minister of Magic himself, but even with her limited experience with the headmaster, this seemed an action he would not normally take. To place Harry in such danger and without further questioning of everyone – or anyone at all – was incomprehensible. And yet they’d done it.

Her hand found the small, intricately designed item hanging from her neck and brushed over it lightly but did not toy with it – it was not an advisable action, _toying_ with time turners. A thousand times she must have considered going back in time to stop all of this or at least force some other kind of response by those in authority. But she’d kept the time turner after her third year only by swearing a solemn oath to Dumbledore that she would use it _only_ for academic purposes unless she received his blessing after unusual circumstances presented themselves.

She had, of course, considered Harry’s appearance among the names within the Goblet of Fire to be one such circumstance, and had gone straight to Dumbledore. Even now, his rebuke hovered in her thoughts.

“Miss Granger, I assure you this situation is already in the hands of the appropriate people, and will be resolved.”

She had argued with Dumbledore himself, something she’d never dared to do in the past. But this time it was different; this was Harry, her best friend, and his very life was at stake. It was also the first time she’d challenged him. “With all due respect, sir, how much control do you actually have?” She’d demanded it of him when his other answers all proved to be subtly circumventing her questions or simply talking her in circles around herself. “You always seem to believe that Hogwarts is the safest place for anything, but every single year that I’ve spent here something has gone _wildly_ wrong and resulted in something terrible. Nothing questionable in the past which has weaseled by your defenses has ever turned out fine, and now this happens and you don’t bat an eye?” It was an oversimplification, of course; Dumbledore had very much batted an eye when Harry’s name was put forth by the Goblet. Still, she felt as though a stronger reaction – or at least more _action_ to determine the culprit or remove Harry from the tournament – was in order.

At that, the headmaster had leveled her with a very serious stare, though it lacked malice. “You know the dangers facing those who meddle with time, Miss Granger,” he said evenly. “Have you put any thought into _how_ you might stop Harry’s name from entering the Goblet and, subsequently, stop _Harry_ from entering the tournament? And in five hours, no less?”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed, but she was furious rather than embarrassed. “Of course I’ve thought about it!” She remembered herself and tacked a late, “Sir,” on the end of the sentence. “But I’d hoped to obtain your permission to go back in the first place, and with that, your advice.”

He studied her for a few long moments and then adjusted his half-moon spectacles on his long nose. During this interlude Hermione tried to keep her face blank but considered whether she could just go back without his blessing and be done with it. She knew the repercussions of going back on a magical oath, of course. But the one sworn with the headmaster was hardly the unbreakable vow. As if reading her mind, Dumbledore’s brows quirked upwards and his eyes twinkled. “You are a very well-read student, perhaps the best presently in this school,” he said with pride. “I’m certain you know better than most – perhaps better than myself – what awaits the witch or wizard who meddles with both time and a magical promise in the same instant?”

Hermione nodded, frowning. This entire exchange had done nothing but tire her and exhaust a portion of the trust and confidence she had in the man before her. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, professor,” she said finally, turning for the door. “With your permission I’ll keep the time turner – for academic use _only_ – and I will return it to you for safekeeping at the end of term, as usual.”

Dumbledore hummed his agreement and did not stop her from leaving, which she took as dismissal. When she was halfway out the door, however, his merry voice called after her cheerfully – “Remember your promise, Miss Granger. It is not _I_ who will be watching for deviance from our agreement, but the magic of the oath itself.”

The warning had been foreboding enough to stop Hermione from using the time turner for anything except her classes for the time being. She did something that fall which she’d never done before, though, and intentionally tanked one of her own homework assignments. A single essay, she told herself, would hardly destroy her reputation at the school or harm her academic future. She did it even before the first task was given to the champions, with the quiet hope that if something went terribly wrong she could go back – only to fix the essay, of course – and perhaps use it as a way to safeguard her return to a time before anything unideal had happened. There was the issue of the protective enchantments placed upon the time turner by the Ministry itself. Five hours into the past was as far as any of the time turners issued by the Ministry would allow one to go. Nevertheless, Hermione felt a certain necessity in safeguarding her reasoning for coming back, even if she didn’t presently have a way of coming back at all. 

And the weeks inched along, months came and went, and the first and second task were complete. Hermione had only ever used the time turner to go back an hour for her classes besides the single time that Dumbledore had given her permission to go back multiple hours and change the fates of both Buckbeak and Sirius. She had read that the further you went, the more risk there was of losing your place in time and winding up somewhere quite different than your intended destination in years. There was also the fact that the time turner would only take her in one direction. If she were to use it to go back and remedy her poor essay, she would be unable to immediately return to the present. This would leave more than one Hermione in Hogwarts during the beginning of the school year and she would have to wait it out in hiding until the original Hermione traveled back.

It was all a gross predicament, and one that grew with complication for every day that she waited. But she was afraid of the repercussions if she did go back on her word with Dumbledore, even if she did so under the guise of going only to remedy the homework assignment. Surely the magic which watched her would sense any ulterior motives. But the tasks, dragons and then nearly drowning, weighed on her heavily. She was sleepless most nights now, guilt-ridden because she had not tried harder to stop all of this from happening to Harry. He’d come out all right in the two tasks so far, but there was an anxiety that had set over the whole school and its guests regarding the third. An ominous mentality seemed to have swept up the entire grounds and the very castle in its grasp, leaving things more hushed and withdrawn than usual.

Hermione was slowly sinking further into her own mind, and between the stress over the upcoming and still widely unknown task ahead and the insomnia, she was slipping. Her performance at school was becoming notably less impressive and her mood with everyone was also worsening. Even Viktor, who had seemed so endearing with his watchful attention at first, now got on her nerves constantly. She knew it was probably ridiculous, but the longer it went on, the more Ron’s voice was in the back of her mind, murmuring about Viktor spying and using Hermione for information. This only prompted her to be particularly snarky with Ron whenever he plucked up the courage to be smart or question her, and about the only one who escaped her wrath these days was Harry. To make it harder, she always regretted lashing out after it happened, and couldn’t even be at peace with her own behavior. It was all very exhausting.

So she began experimenting. She’d go back a few hours in a single night in order to catch up on homework or try to catch up on a portion of the sleep which had eluded her before. Genuinely academic pursuits only, of course. But the longer it went on, the bolder she became. At first it was an hour here, two there. She knew the rules as well as anyone – time turners were enchanted to take the wearer back no further than five hours into the past, as that was the maximum amount of time deemed relatively safe from travel-induced mistakes such as unbirths and the death of the traveler themselves.

But five hours felt no different than four.

Hermione knew she’d been through a stringent process where the Ministry of Magic had gone through all of her credentials as well as her academic history in order to determine whether or not it was safe to lend her the time turner for the purpose of her education. Multiple professors at Hogwarts would have spoken on her behalf. Though she hadn’t actually been aware of much of the process, the Ministry would have done their homework and also been sure that the time turner they issued to a student was properly enchanted and in working order. She knew the enchantments around the time turner were simply to stop one from going back more than five hours but didn’t know how they achieved this. There were not necessarily consequences for going back further, it should simply be impossible to achieve in the first place.

So then why not try?

She was sure to do it in an effort to catch up on assignments, the first time she dared turn the knob more than five times. She had counted the hours of this experiment closely, placing her homework in the abandoned girl’s bathroom in the morning and leaving herself a functioning pocket watch so that she could confirm the time she was traveling back to. Shortly longer than six hours later, after attending classes and keeping far away from the bathroom, she returned just long enough to use the time turner to go back. She checked the pocket watch when she arrived, certain she would find that she had only come back by five hours, but the time that waited for her on its face was an hour earlier than she’d dared to hope for. She kept out of sight, following the most basic rules of time travel, and waited for some kind of consequence to descend upon her. But none came.

And she kept pushing. Why the time turner she had in her possession was not working as it should to stop her from going back so far was a question ever-present on her mind, but she tried not to dwell on it. Its dysfunction served her purposes well enough. She could only hope the limit of five hours was the _only_ bit wrong with it. Now it was eight hours for a proper night’s sleep, even ten if she thought she could get away with retiring to bed “early” to complete assignments.

The more she went back, the more confident she felt. Sleeping wasn’t purely academic, but it was close enough and there had been no repercussions for using the time turner for it. It was now spring, had been _months_ since her flubbed essay in the first week of class. If she went back it would be the biggest jump she’d ever taken, and there would be the matter of hiding herself to avoid discovery until this very day, when her old self – currently her present self – had gone back. It was all very hard to think about in strict, straight lines. Time was more of a wobbly, curving thing with rules which doubled back on themselves and pockets where there shouldn’t be any, particularly when one was attempting to move through it in an unnatural manner. And there was such a difference between hours and months.

Being that no one had died and Harry seemed about as prepared for the final task as the other champions – ignoring that he was underage and lacking the same level of education they possessed – she was hard pressed to justify going back now. But Professor Moody had become increasingly peculiar and problematic, and she was now convinced that if she could spend her months of hiding spying on him, she may wind up with very interesting information. The longer she spent in his Defense Against the Dark Arts class, the less she trusted the wizard. Harry had mentioned something from Moaning Myrtle regarding Polyjuice potion, and Snape had accused the three of them of stealing his personal potion ingredients. Ingredients which, he’d been very sure to point out, were used together only exclusively in Polyjuice.

Hermione was now sure that her biological clock kept right on ticking regardless of what time she was in, which meant the hours spent in the past were hours her body continued to age. If she went back to start of term then these would be five months of her body’s life that she lost. It took no time to come to terms with this, hell bent as she was on finding a way to protect Harry.

She had the hiding bit worked out, at least. The Room of Requirement was somewhere in Hogwarts, and she suspected that the school itself would deem her going back to be a worthy effort. She could only hope the room would present itself to her when she needed it.

No one else knew of her plans, but Harry came the closest to finding them out. He had extreme reservations when she asked to borrow his invisibility cloak and was unable to tell him why. In the end, though, trust and friendship won out and her promises to explain everything after she gave it back were enough. He’d slipped it to her in the common room, close to midnight and only when he was sure no one was around to see.

That was how she found herself in her robes – being caught out in the halls at this time of morning would be bad enough, not to mention what would happen if she was out and about in muggle clothing – with her wand tucked away and the time turner absently clutched in one hand against her chest, making her way through the more desolate corridors the school had to offer. She assumed the Room of Requirement would present itself in a place where there were no paintings or portraits nearby to witness anything. As she walked, she considered the path before her again. The invisibility cloak hung lightly on her shoulders. It was hardly stifling, but she still felt the need to pull the hood off her head so that she could breathe and think properly.

She’d considered using magic to turn the knob the proper number of times, even developed a simple charm that would do so for her. But in the end her desire for precision had won out, and she’d determined that even if she blistered her thumb and forefinger in the process, turning the knob by hand to ensure the proper number of hours was worth it. She’d done the math so many times that the equation still floated behind her eyes, and she was positive about the great number of hours she’d be traversing. She would go back a very specific number of them, erring on the side of further back in time rather than missing her intended target. Better to arrive a bit earlier than planned than too late. _And all in order to fix the essay_. She repeated the words silently to herself over and over, trying hard to frustrate herself with the grade she’d received and use that frustration as her foremost reason for traveling back. Even with her miraculous avoidance of the five hour limit, her oath to Dumbledore was still in full effect.

She found a corridor with walls bare enough to suit her fancy and sat down against it. There were only two portraits here and one frame was empty, while the other showed a snoozing wizard. It was relatively dark, with torches burning low. Easy enough to hide herself in the shadow beside a column. She hesitated, able to see the time turner in this light but only just. She wished she had Harry or even Ron with her and paused, smiling to herself as she imagined what they would have to say about the whole situation. She knew her decision to set the time turner by hand would be outrageous to them both.

_“By hand, ‘Mione? Really?”_

_“If you went through the trouble of making up a whole charm to do it for you, why not use it?”_

She sighed, thoughtful. Why not? It might be safer that way – no chance of losing count and screwing everything up. She drew out her wand and held the time turner where she could see it, though its chain was still looped around her neck. She pulled the hood of the invisibility cloak back up over her head. “Calculare hora,” she whispered, and watched as the knob began to turn. It moved too quickly for her to count the number of times before it stopped and then the small hourglass at the center of the time turner began to spin rapidly. It tumbled over itself again and again while Hermione stared. In her peripheral vision she caught blurs of movement and light, but it was as if any sound besides the ticking of the item in her hand had been snuffed out entirely. It felt like years were passing her by, but she knew that this was going to take far longer than any of the shorter journeys through time she’d had before.

She managed a nervous smirk; if she was caught at this, there could be terrible, terrible legal consequences. She could always plead that it had been an accident, of course, as it wasn’t _her_ fault the five hour enchantment was not effective, but there was veritaserum to draw the truth out of her. Even if she hadn’t toyed with the enchantment, she’d very intentionally broken the laws regarding time travel. Of all the times she could have started breaking rules, _this_ was how she decided to take the jump. Of course. She carefully tucked away her wand and continued to watch the time turner, now holding it beneath the cloak so that none of her was visible. When she got to where she was going, it would be early enough that no one should be out and about, but just to be safe . . .

The time turner clicked as it stopped. She looked up and started in surprise, forgetting that she was invisible and shrinking back against the wall behind her. Three students – Gryffindors by their red and gold ties – walked by leisurely, clutching books to their chests or bags over their shoulders. The torches in the hall were flaring with life and made it quite easy to see the trio, even in a corridor lacking windows, as this one was.

They were all male, definitely older than second or third year but not in their sixth or seventh yet. Two of them – both taller than the third – walked ahead of the smaller, rounder boy in the back. One of the leading two looked quite familiar, though Hermione couldn’t put her finger on why. “I’m serious,” he said quietly. His face was scarred, as if something with large claws had gotten at him sometime in the past.

“Oh, Merline’s sake,” the shorter one in the back feigned distress, “And this whole time I thought _he_ was Sirius.” He nodded to the boy who had not yet spoken and chuckled to himself.

The indicated boy turned to snicker in the shorter one’s direction and Hermione got a good look at his face. He also looked somewhat familiar . . . “I _am_ Sirius!” he crowed happily, and the two slowed their walking so that they could guffaw at each other and pound on each other’s backs. The more somber of the trio shook his head at them, but a fond smile curled his lips.

Beneath Harry’s cloak, Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth. _It couldn’t be._

“I’m serious.”

“No, I’m Sirius!”

“Oh really? Are we all serious now?”

The three of them passed her and continued to make their way down the corridor, oblivious to her presence.

“Oi!”

She started again and whipped her head to the side at the source of the noise. A boy who looked very much like Harry was standing there, grinning at the three in the hall. He was distant enough that Hermione couldn’t get a good look at him, but something heavy and nauseating formed in her gut as she squinted his way, forming itself along with the certainty that if he was closer she’d find that he did look like Harry, only with different eyes and minus the lightning scar.

 _Merlin, no. Oh, no. No no no._ She’d been so careful, so calculated. There was no way-

“James.” The scarred boy’s somber face lit up with a smile, and those of his two friends quickly followed. “I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to tell us next time you’ve got detention. These two have been moaning about how you ditched them for quidditch practice or some other adventure for the past hour. I’m ready to rid myself of all three of you for it.”

More uproarious laughter followed and the four of them disappeared around a corner.

Hermione was now biting the hand against her mouth, terror welling in her chest. This was some kind of trick, it must be. She couldn’t have gone back this far. She gripped the wall beside her and stood up slowly, mindful of the invisibility cloak and careful to keep against the wall so that no one surprised her by rushing into the corridor and walking right into her. She kept telling herself that she must be mistaken, but as she made her way toward McGonagall’s office she passed numerous other students, and it quickly became apparent that none of them were familiar to her. She couldn’t expect to know everyone at Hogwarts, of course, but the students in Gryffindor were familiar enough and none of those which she passed wearing the traditional red and gold sparked any recognition in her mind. She passed a grandfather clock in the hall and understood that it was early afternoon, whichever day it was.

When she reached the office belonging to the head of Gryffindor house she hesitated, afraid. She didn’t even know what year it was. If she’d gone as far back as she suspected, the witch inside wouldn’t even know her name. Perhaps it would be better to seek out Dumbledore . . .

The door in front of her began to open unexpectedly and Hermione stepped backwards in surprise. Her foot must have caught the hem of Harry’s cloak, because it was pulled off of her and fell down her back to rest behind her on the floor. She scrambled to turn around and fold the now-plain piece of fabric up, barely transfiguring it into a handkerchief and jamming it into a pocket in her robes before the door swung all of the way open and she heard a surprised noise.

“I’m sorry, dear, if I surprised you . . .” The voice was familiar to Hermione, just as Scottish as ever, but sounded younger, somehow.

Hermione stood slowly, turning to look at her professor. The McGonagall standing before her was younger, with raven black hair and hardly a wrinkle in her face. She gazed at Hermione kindly, but there was a sharp something in her eyes that the younger witch did not miss.

McGonagall took a few seconds to scrutinize what Hermione was wearing, and her brow creased in confusion. Hermione glanced down at herself and realized why, suddenly remembering that she was wearing her own robes, complete with Gryffindor attire peeking out. If this professor McGonagall was the head of Gryffindor house, she would know every single Gryffindor student as certainly as she did in the time Hermione had come from. And if the students Hermione had encountered so far were anything to base her suspicions on, this time was not her own and this McGonagall would most certainly not know her.

The teacher narrowed her eyes and then stepped back with her hand on the open door. “I don’t suppose you could come in for a moment, Miss . . .?”

Hermione almost choked on her own surname. “G-Granger. Hermione Granger.” She didn’t know if she’d just wrecked time and affected everything in the future by uttering those words, but there wasn’t time to think on it. She mutely followed McGonagall inside of the office and sat down once the door was closed, wringing her hands. Perhaps she should have gone to Dumbledore first. Perhaps she should have done more exploring on her own. Perhaps-

McGonagall cleared her throat and Hermione looked up, realizing the professor had taken a seat behind her desk and even gone so far as to offer her tea. At least that much was familiar.

“Thank you, professor.” She accepted it automatically, adding a sugar cube and then staring numbly down at it. There was a period of silence. Finally Hermione looked up. The patient witch seated across from her was watching her very closely, still studying. Hermione licked her lips and took a sip of tea, suddenly aware of how dry her mouth was.

“Miss . . . Granger.”

“Yes, professor.”

McGonagall was now smoothing the papers on her desk, setting the sugar cubes aside, and then fixing Hermione with a piercing stare. “I’ve been here a few years now. You appear to be in your fourth or fifth year yourself, and you also appear to be a member of my own house.” She cleared her throat again. “I’ve no recollection of you being here as a first year or anything else, for that matter, and while we do occasionally have transfer students, the headmaster generally makes quite an effort to discuss such matters with the heads of house before accepting a new student, let alone bringing them into the school.”

Hermione’s mind was spinning. Lies didn’t seem like the best idea, and this was McGonagall, the very witch who had offered Hermione the opportunity to apply for a time turner in the first place. “I’m not . . . I’m not supposed to be here.” Out of nowhere, her eyes welled up with tears. “I’m sorry. What year is it?”

McGonagall became suddenly very guarded. “The year?” she repeated, though her stern gaze had softened some at Hermione’s tears. She reached across the desk and handed Hermione a newspaper. The Daily Prophet was printed in exactly the fashion she was used to, but the date at the top made her breath catch in her throat.

“1975,” she breathed, tears dissipating out of sheer shock.

“Miss Granger, _why_ on earth would you need to know the year?” McGonagall’s tone conveyed that she suspected, but still she waited for Hermione’s response.

Hermione nearly vomited. “1995,” she murmured, staring around her with wide eyes. She glanced over the paper again, taking in its contents. “I’ve just come from 1995.”

McGonagall seemed unimpressed. “Well, if that’s true then I suppose you’ve a bit of explaining to do. Might I ask how you came to be here?”

Hermione didn’t know if she was about to forfeit one of her most useful – and now only – possessions, but she reached down the front of her robes to pull the time turner out. She carefully unwound it from her own neck and hair before setting it on the desk between them. “It was a mistake,” she whispered hoarsely. She wasn’t on the verge of tears anymore, her shock too complete for anything but a hollow, sinking feeling in her chest. “It was supposed to be hours. Not _years_.” Hours, that was a bit of an understatement, but it was also the truth. Months, not years. Weeks, not years. Days, not years. _Hours_ , _not_ _years_. The knob on the time turner went by hours. Nothing more, nothing less. Perhaps it was because she’d broken her promise to Dumbledore, or because the five hour enchantment wasn’t the only thing wrong with the time turner. Perhaps her charm, however calculated, had not done as she intended. Perhaps she’d somehow seriously miscalculated the number of turns required to the knob to get her where she wanted to go.

Did it even matter how or why any longer? Even if McGonagall confiscated the time turner, it wasn’t like the thing could take Hermione _forward_ in time.

The professor examined the time turner and then peered at Hermione with the same unnerving look over her spectacles that Dumbledore so often employed.

“Please, Professor,” Hermione said urgently. “I need to see Professor Dumbledore. He’s the most powerful wizard there is. If anyone knows how to fix this, it’s him.” The severe look lingered on McGonagall’s face. “I can prove I’m from the future. I’m not even born yet in 1975, but I know things. I can tell you –”

“Miss Granger, stop!”

Hermione bit her tongue, she slammed her mouth shut so fast.

McGonagall set the time turner back on the desk and briefly removed her glasses so that she might rub the bridge of her nose. “If you are from the future . . . and I have no evidence at this time to suggest otherwise . . . then telling me – or anyone – details of what the future holds could be disastrous. You have broken countless laws and regulations just in being here, mistake or no.” She replaced her spectacles on her nose and leveled Hermione with a slightly softer, more understanding look. “I cannot begin to imagine what you’re thinking at this moment, but I need you to remain level-headed enough to follow some very basic guidelines. And you are correct; we must go straight to the headmaster.”

They made their way to Dumbledore’s office in silence. Hermione knew the way, walking quicker than McGonagall but trying to remain beside her for the duration of the journey. She knew the professor took note of the fact that she was aware of exactly where they were headed. As if the headmaster himself foresaw their arrival, the gargoyle moved aside and they entered without so much as pausing to utter a password.

When they reached the office, Dumbledore was leaning back against his desk facing them. He nodded to McGonagall and then studied Hermione with the same intensity that the female professor had. Over the next hour she tried to explain more of what had happened without getting herself into too much trouble. “You say that you do not yet even exist in this world?” Dumbledore asked eventually, eyes twinkling.

“I’m to be born September of 1979,” she replied quietly. Unable to contain what had only just occurred to her, she asked, “Sir, are you going to alert the Ministry of Magic?”

The headmaster waved a hand in dismissal at her question, shaking his head. “Not yet,” he said at length. Neither he nor Hermione missed the way McGonagall stiffened beside her. Nodding at the female professor, he continued, “I believe the answer is obvious. We have until September of 1979 to find a solution.”

McGonagall could not contain herself any longer. “A _solution_ , Albus?” she asked.

Again, he nodded. “There is much else going on, of course, but I see no reason that I cannot devote some of my time to reversing Miss Granger’s predicament. Perhaps with enough time I can find a way to return her to where she belongs.”

Hermione could hardly breathe.

“And in the interim?” McGonagall sounded thoroughly perplexed.

Again, the headmaster’s eyes twinkled. He smiled at them both for the first time since they had arrived in his office. “Well, I do believe Miss Granger was nearing the end of her fourth year. I’m certain we could arrange for the O.W.L.s she takes with us this year to correlate accordingly.” He gazed at Hermione thoughtfully. “Unless you’ve got a transfigured suitcase on your person, I suppose you’ll be needing some supplies, both academic and personal.” His eyes shifted to McGonagall. “I trust you know what to do.”

Still looking quite out of sorts, the older witch nodded. “Of course.” She looked to Hermione. “You said your family won’t be stumbling upon you if you stay here?”

Hermione shook her head. “They’re muggles. No magic in anyone else in the family. Just me.” She did not miss the significance of the look which passed between her elders.

“That’s good, then. I’ll see to it that you get any required books and supplies for this semester. As for clothing and robes . . .” She glanced Dumbledore’s way.

“I believe a late visit to Diagon Alley may be in order,” he hummed, turning away and busying himself with something at his desk. “Welcome back to Hogwarts, Miss Granger.”

They left his office. He’d kept the time turner with him, gently asserting that he assumed Hermione wouldn’t be needing it for a time. She was glad enough to have the wretched thing out of her hands, unwilling to go any further back in time and muck things up more than they’d already been. McGonagall did speak on their way back to her office, briefly catching Hermione up on the goings on. “I have classes to teach, Miss Granger, but by this evening I’ll have a dormitory in Gryffindor Tower arranged. You’ll have to busy yourself until then. I shall come find you when arrangements have been made. Perhaps a visit to Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley this weekend.” She paused outside of the office, frowning. “You know the rules, Miss Granger. You may use your real name and some specifics of your childhood, as long as they are not too detailed or timestamped. But you mustn’t tell a soul how you came to be here or where you’re really from.” She gazed sternly at Hermione, who nodded.

“Of course, Professor. I – I think I’ll go to the library.”

There were so many questions left unanswered. Would she remain at Hogwarts over the summer? Would Dumbledore actually find a way to send her back? And further, because they refused to allow her to speak of anything from her own time, both professors who did know the truth were unaware of the critical role the four boys Hermione had seen earlier would play in the future of the school, the war, and everything else. She harbored a quiet terror that she would ruin everything if she interacted with them at all.

She made her way to the library without incident, though she caught herself glancing at students passing her by and looking for any she recognized. Looking for Harry, or Ron, or Neville. Hell, even Draco Malfoy for that matter. Malfoy would at least have some snark to offer and even that would make her feel less alone. But the only faces she did recognize scared her, and she avoided them fastidiously. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, young and boisterous and missing all of the hollow, haunted knowledge from her time. James Potter, so like Harry in appearance but so much louder and more sure of himself. Peter Pettigrew, who made Hermione’s stomach turn when he glanced her way.

She escorted herself to a quiet corner of the library, as far removed from any other students as she could get, and collapsed in a windowsill seat beneath an intricate stained glass figure. The tears overtook her then, coming faster than anticipated. One moment she was overwhelmed but more angry and afraid than anything, and the next she was devastated. She may never see Harry or Ron again, may never see her parents again, may never even make it back to the proper time in order to protect her best friend. At least the Triwizard Tournament was far in the future and she didn’t have to worry about Harry going it alone while she was stuck here. As of right now, Harry didn’t even exist.

It felt so much like her first year, when she’d been mocked for her dedication to homework, her need for perfectionism, always sticking her hand in the air and often correcting other students when her opinion was not welcome. When Ron’s comment had sent her over the edge and she’d gone to the girl’s bathroom to cry it out. But now the bathroom was far away, too far to get to without making a scene, and she’d already holed up in her private corner of the library. So she curled in on herself, pulled her knees up to her chest, and buried her face in her hands. Sometimes there was nothing to do but have a good cry and let it out. She half-mumbled, half-sobbed a muffling charm but still tried to keep relatively quiet, aware that there was only so much the charm could do.

She stayed like that for some time, until there were no tears left to cry and her nose was sore from her wiping at it, and stuffy from running, and her eyes felt puffy to the touch. She pulled the transfigured handkerchief from her pocket and used it to blow her nose, muttering, “Sorry, Harry,” as she did. She waved her wand and cleaned it right away, but still felt badly for using his invisibility cloak as a tissue.

There was a cough from beside her, someone clearing their throat in a way that very much demanded to be noticed.

Knees still drawn up to her chest, Hermione lifted her head and glanced to her left. The boy standing beside her was dressed in all black, wand in hand, with several large and heavy-looking books floating beside him. He stared down his nose at her, looking somehow both severe and somewhat concerned. “Are you all right?” The question seemed to ask why she was there more than whether she was feeling okay. He was very tall, very pale beneath his black hair and robes, and very much Severus Snape.

Hermione sniffed and tried not to gape at him, sitting up and stretching her legs out as if to stand. “I’m fine.” She was guarded, knowing nothing about the young version of the potions professor whom she had grown to despise and distrust.

When she moved his eyes dipped down towards her chest for a fraction of a moment, and Hermione felt herself growing very red and very angry all at once. Before she could puff up further or speak, he grunted in a dismissive way. “This is my spot,” he asserted, the earlier concern completely gone from his voice.

She was taken aback. “I was here first,” she said immediately, his misguided gaze temporarily forgotten in light of him trying to kick her out of the refuge she’d made for herself. She moved further back into the seat, leaning her back against the window frame. Drawing her knees back up to rest her feet on the seat, she was not as folded up as earlier but somewhat stretched out, trying to get comfortable. She was not moving, least of all for some pompous, unempathetic Slytherin who waltzed in with no regard for anyone else and demanded that she vacate _his_ territory.

He leveled her with a glare, still looking down at her; he was quite a bit taller than she, particularly since she was seated and he was not. “Not for the entire school year up until today, you weren’t,” he pointed out, venomous.

Quite accustomed to Malfoy and a number of other less than friendly schoolmates from her own time, Hermione met him stare for stare. His gaze was withering but left her feeling angry and emboldened, not afraid. “I’m not leaving until I’m quite ready to.”

Snape rolled his eyes. She’d seen the action from his older self plenty of times, but found that this younger version was much more emotive than the professor she was acquainted with. “Fine,” he snarled, beginning to turn.

“Fine.” Hermione had only seconds to inwardly celebrate her victory, as he simply moved to the opposite side of the window seat – it was large enough to accommodate perhaps three or four students if they sat close together – and sat down, waving his wand so that his books stacked themselves neatly between the two of them. Hermione was caught off guard. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

He leaned back against the window and crossed his legs, selecting one of the tomes from his stack and opening it without so much as looking at her. “Compromising,” he said after he’d situated himself comfortably and found the page he was looking for.

She was bewildered. “Compromising,” she repeated, staring at him. _Compromise_? From _Professor_ _Snape_? Not a professor yet, she reminded herself, trying to gauge how old he was.

“What else would you call it?” he asked, clearly annoyed. When she didn’t answer he did finally turn to look at her, snarling, “Staring. Is. Rude.”

Hermione just pursed her lips, holding his infuriated gaze for a few seconds before looking out the window. When her crying had ended earlier she was left feeling empty, and now she was glad for it. If she’d had any emotional capacity left she might start crying again or rip the snide bastard across the seat from her a new one. Probably best that neither happened, particularly on her first day at Hogwarts in this new time. She took a breath and opened her mouth to speak but he was already back to reading, ignoring her existence. So she bit back the words and studied him for a few seconds longer – glowered at him, more like – before her eyes slipped down to the books he had with him and she began considering which classes they must be for.

For Severus, it was another droll day. Professors expecting his best academically due to his marks, his worst behaviorally due to his house. All of them pretending that the Dark Lord’s rise to power wasn’t casting a black shadow over the whole of the school, even the Slytherins. The regular house competition had become stretched and particularly vile lately, especially between Gryffindors and Slytherins. He tried to keep himself out of it for the most part, but some Gryffindor students made that more difficult than others. His friendship with Lily had her friends at his throat, and his own as well. Well, if “friends” were what he could call his fellow Slytherins.

Classes persisted, regular impromptu duels and scuffles in the halls occurred, and some buzz in the air about a new transfer student. When his classes were finally over for the day, Severus made for the library, content to get some of his homework out of the way before dinner. He paid no attention to the gossip, caring little for new students. And this late in the year? What an outrageous, utterly foolish time to transfer in. He didn’t care whether the supposed new student – of whom he’d seen neither hide nor hair – was Slytherin or not. Normally Lily would join him in the library or out near the lake if the weather was fair, but things had been strained between them lately. She was in some sort of crisis between her friendship with Severus and her identity in Gryffindor, two things which were more at odds with each other with every passing day.

And so he stalked past the table he and Lily often shared, today preferring the space he had always turned to for private study. _And there was someone in it._ It was a silly comparison, but he briefly considered himself suddenly understanding of how shocked and angry the family of bears must have been who came home to find Goldilocks in their space, eating their food, making herself comfortable in their home, _uninvited_. The someone was obviously crying, obviously very upset, all balled up and folded in on herself with her arms around her knees and her head down. That lessened his anger a smidge.

He cleared his throat, glad he’d chosen today to levitate his books alongside him so that he wasn’t standing there under their great weight and waiting for the intruder to move. All he could see were black robes and bushy, disastrously curly amber hair. Severus was no great fan of his own locks, but found himself silently thanking genetics that he hadn’t been stuck with _that_ mess on his head.

She lifted her head to regard him at last, and it struck him how helpless her puffy, splotchy face looked. It also disgusted him, but he swallowed that down, wondering if this was the new student or some Slytherin female he’d failed to notice all this time. He held little regard for his housemates, but did hold them somewhat higher than students from other houses.

And then she was nothing but a smart-mouthed, stubborn pain in the ass. When she moved and he caught sight of her red and gold tie it all made sense, and after that any sense of concern or care for her wellbeing was out the window. And she wasn’t leaving. He’d glared, snarled, and performed his usual basic bundle of tricks to scare other students off, but she just glared and threw it right back. _Damn you._

And so he sat, perching himself on the wrong side of the window seat because she was quite literally _in his spot_. She would leave eventually if he gave her a cold enough shoulder and spoke with enough venom. They always did.

Eventually Madam Pince arrived and while initially annoyed, Severus was pleasantly surprised when it turned out she was here to remove his bothersome seating companion. “Oh, there you are. Miss Granger, is it?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young witch nod mutely. “Professor McGonagall would like you to meet her in Gryffindor Tower at once.” The witch glanced between the two students, pressed into opposite corners of the window seat as if allergic to one another but unwilling to move entirely, and shook her head. She nodded once to Severus, who had lifted his head to acknowledge her, and then turned and bustled away to scold some giggling first-years for being too loud.

The girl – _Granger_ – stood and made to leave, but he spoke as she got up. “Granger,” he drawled, pointedly not looking up from his book. He wasn’t asking for her attention and had nothing else to say. Parting like this was all the sweeter knowing that he knew her name and she didn’t know his.

“Snape,” she said curtly.

His head snapped up, but she was already walking away. How did she know his name? She glanced back over her shoulder at him just before disappearing from sight, and he thought she looked rather smug.

He snorted quietly to himself. _Gryffindors._ He’d have to try and be here earlier next time, in case she made a habit out of stealing his studying space.

**Author's Note:**

> I realize this is a bit out of nowhere and maybe confusing, but I promise it'll all make sense later.


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